


He follows his friend.

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 10x14 The Executioner's Song</p>
            </blockquote>





	He follows his friend.

His shadow leaves an imprint in the hallway, one he follows to the closed door. 

The room is dark, but somehow unfit for sleeping. He doesn’t turn on the light. He starts instead with the marks on his friend’s face, shallow but red and angry. He runs a fingertip over them, and his eyes open.

"Cas? What’s going on?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

His eyes flutter shut, not with sleep but with frustration; the kind that could only come from exhaustion. 

"No."

He continues his ministrations, tracing the cuts and finding pathways between them made of freckles and old scars. When the skin starts to knit together, a hand grabs his wrist. 

"Don’t waste it, fucking idiot."

His breath hitches and he flattens his palm to his friend’s face, pouring light and sound and  _healing_  into the gesture instead of saying the words:  _You are the only being that is worth it to me._

He relaxes, letting the healing the happen after a moment. 

"When I handed it to you, I wanted you to kill me," his friend says, running a hand over his own face, brushing their fingers together as he sits up on one elbow.

He pulls his hand away, sitting beside him, the bed creaking loudly in the darkness. 

"You gonna give me a pep talk, like Sam?"

He sighs, turning away from his friend, his next words catching in his throat.  

"I won’t," he starts, "I would like to touch you, if you'd like the same."

He turns back to him, reading through the confusion on his face. It’s weak and put-on; he has expected this. Pondered it, at least. 

He nods. His lips taste like whiskey and smoke, and it’s not at all unpleasant. The noises he makes are small, but they echo off the wall and set his heart racing. Dean grips his wrist like a vice, keeping one hand on the side of his face. He doesn’t know what to say; angels can only heal so much. 

His friend pulls him down, pressing them together where the blanket allows. He follows his friend. 


End file.
